Hieronymus Blake
by Dash of Moonlight
Summary: The story of a former Confederate officer stationned in a colony far removed from the main worlds. Unaware of what has unfolded in the sector, he awaits the socalled liberators – the Sons of Korhal. But others have come as well, uninvited.
1. Chapter 1, The Works

**Hieronymus Blake**

**1. The Works**

It was about breakfast time and Harry Blake was sitting in the barracks' mess hall, fully enjoying his daily standard bowlful of cereals – or what passed for them anyway. He didn't even react when the hydraulic door slowly hissed open.

"You comin'?" someone asked, standing halfway through the door frame.

Harry lifted his head slightly. "Nah," he uttered, still munching on the rock-hard flakes, "you handle it on your own." He went on munching. He looked again a few seconds afterward, noticing that the interloper had yet to leave. He gulped, his eyes still trained on the newly promoted Corporal. "'Cept if you're not up to it..."

The man stood straight and saluted. "I'm ready as hell."

"Well then just do it."

"Yes sir," and he left, the echoes of his footsteps echoing through the corridor as he trotted through it.

_Hesitation,_ Harry thought. Typical among those fresh-out-of-the-academy cadets; and it was his first mission to boot. But the kid, although a bit clumsy, was bright; he would come out all right in the end. Most probably he would soon be going the hell out of this backwater world, to kick off some real assignment. They all did.

All the smart ones, at least, he observed to himself. How he had remained in this dump so long was beyond everyone – even him. But even though it _was _a dump, it was his, and he felt at home in some way.

Being through eating (although the bowl was only half empty), he rose from the silvery, metallic bench, and nonchalantly left the mess, leaving all his stuff on the table, – as everyone always did around here.

There was not much to do. One day the Confederacy had fallen, without warning. Being on a world as remote as this one, they had not had any information about it, except that the "Sons of Korhal" were the new heroes. It had left the local militia's soldiers with a lot of free time on their hands. Only one colony, no particularly violent inhabitants, – no major ones anyway, – and those so-called "liberators" dragging their feet coming. Besides, nobody wanted to fight. As the highest ranking officer, – a mere Captain, he noted inwardly, referring to the two small white bars on his shoulder, – he had assumed command; or rather, he had assumed taking care of whatever weird needs and fears the citizens could have in this hellhole. "Not much to do," he repeated aloud.

The elevators were bulky and rusty, but eventually they managed to lift him one floor up to the second one. The lights within flickered, but they always went steady again after a punch or two. Another drawback of the end of the Confederacy: no more spare parts coming, and no one motivated enough to make them.

The office's door was open, again. This time he did not even put his hand on his pistol's grip: he just strolled in. They had broken in so many times that he did not even count any more. The kids; the bad ones; civilians; tampering with reports and so on. Third-rate burglars to the core: not even worth worrying about.

Hieronymus was lying on the desk in the midst of the papers, fully stretched. He did not even shift an inch. Darn lazy cat, thought Harry smilingly. "Weren't you named after me, you'd've been evicted long ago..." he just said, while sitting and leaning back in his chair. He sighed – a long-drawn-out sigh at that – after having removed his gun and the straps holding it, and laying everything on the desk. _Darn chair's all fucked up, _he observed. It leant all the way back with no resistance whatsoever. He found himself sunk within it, staring at the ceiling, his legs hanging loosely in the air. "To hell with it," and he just closed his eyes, hoping to catch some Zs before any more trouble arose.

* * *

When Harry opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the cat, all curled up in his lap, purring slightly. It was nightfall, ambient light was gradually fading away. Rubbing his eyes, he groaned, feeling his feet all sluggish from lack of blood, and his back aching a bit. He reached out to hurl Hieronymus away, but pulled out at the last second. He knew it unconsciously: something was just wrong. 

It was the cat that first gave it away. He could tell it had just awaken. It purred not as it typically did, but out of fear – or worry, at least – and it seemed to be watching out, alternately looking at the small window or the still open door. A distinct metallic sound occurred and echoed in the corridor, – as was usual, for the building's structure was under a lot of stress, especially since it wasn't appropriately taken care of lately, – but it echoed so long and so deeply, that both Harry and his cat noticed the unusual: the total absence of any other sound to cover it up.

"CAPTAIN BLAKE, COME IN!" his radio shrieked loudly, all of a sudden. Like lightning, Hieronymus leapt over the desk and ran away; very shortly thereafter it could not be heard any more. As for Harry, his legs jerked up reflexively, and both him and the chair collapsed backward. He rolled to the office's wall, upon which he collided loudly.

"Goddammit!" he uttered once back up. The com-link's red light on the radio still blinked, indicating that the transmission remained to be acknowledged. Glancing at its side, he noticed that, as he had thought, the volume was turned all the way up. _That's the stuff! _thought he, while tuning it down. "Hieronymus!" he called out, leaning in the corridor through the door frame, to which he had stepped. No answer.

He stared at the radio. The light was still blinking. "What is it, Portman" – that was the Corporal's name – "whose backyard did you mess up this time?" He noticed, by the by, that it was getting very dark, which wasn't normal. He looked at the ceiling and noticed, indeed, that all the lights were out. He turned the switch on and off a dozen time, before deciding that they really were out.

A new transmission came in, slightly scrambled by parasites – which meant, given the sound of it, that the local emitter had gone dark as well, and that the radios were transmitting with their own power. He heard Portman's voice, interspersed with his fellow comrades' voices.

"Sir, _Over there! _uh, we're at the power generator. And there's... _What the hell..._ er... You'd better come down there and take a look—"

And it instantly cut out, as if the radio on the other side had stopped transmitting.

* * *

The door was opened mechanically. Standard Confederate Procedure: when power is out, you could still open the doors with a good-old-fashioned security key and the appropriate manpower. But he was alone, hence the five minutes it had needed him to turn the wheel linked to the door's hydraulics.

He was unarmed, aside from his sidearm, for you could not man Confederate standard-issued Gauss rifles without wearing an energetic armor, – it could tear your arms off, – and he neither had time to put one on (especially without help from the machinery, which was out of power), nor had the motivation to search all over the place for smaller machine guns. Besides, he had salvaged the last armor-piercing rounds left for his own use (and quite a number of them at that); he had seen them in action, and loved them.

A sandy wind had arisen, causing him to cough several time while he trotted from the Barracks to the generator, – a good hundred yards. No one was in sight, but it wasn't unusual, considering that there weren't that many soldiers in the base. Two dozens, at most; and at least half of them always were guarding the colony on the other side of the hill, a little more than half a mile away. Most of the others, if not all, were probably with Portman.

Thankfully, the building's door was open; Harry darted in, hastily, coughing out the last remnants of the sand impairing his breathing. A sound caught his attention. Almost right away, he caught a glance of a light at the end of the corridor in front of him, and spotted a small flare on the metallic ground, which was the source of the low, humming noise.

Pistol drawn, he walked through as carefully as he could, paying close attention to every door, every corner, every dark spot. If there was one thing he had learned from his service in the Confederate army, it was to be careful when things felt weird – especially in a close-combat setting such as in that building.

Once at the flare, there were two directions: right and left. On the left was an elevator, on the floor of which another flare burned steadily. It had probably come back up automatically, he thought, not really knowledgeable about power generators' procedures (true to their reputation, Confederacy officials always imposed different procedures for each building, rendering it impossible for the average soldier to know all of them). Having glanced the other way and ascertained that there was no immediate danger, he stepped within, and pressed the button labeled "DOWN", since that specific elevator could only lead underground.

But it did not move. "Damn!" Harry voiced, as he remembered that the power cut also applied to elevators. He looked about him, and quickly noticed a trap, which he had to pry open. Then he used the maintenance ladder to go down, barely seeing anything but for the flare's glow.

Halfway through already, he could smell it: the distinctive scent that always lingered in the air after firing a Gauss rifle – even more striking in a confined space. Once down, he clutched on the pistol and held it at the ready. These doors were opened already, but it was pitch-black. Slowly, and noiselessly, he grabbed the flashlight attached to his belt, and held it alongside the gun, as he had been trained to do. He clicked it on.

He stared in open-mouthed awe at the scene.

* * *

Being through vomiting every single piece of his barely digested breakfast on the ground, Harry tried not to breathe too deeply, and inspected the room. The smell of death had was not yet clear, but the smell of blood, – and spilt insides, – sure as hell was. One one side, he did not even want to try to imagine what could have done that, let alone find out at his own expense; but on the other side, it was plainly clear that his tranquil life so far was completely, and utterly, finished for the time being.

Portman, or it looked like him enough anyway, lay in the midst of the carnage. Notwithstanding how much it disgusted Harry to look within the armor's helmet, his former comrade's face not being what it once was, he managed to distinguish the small yellow blinking light of his mission recorder, beside one of the visor's swivels. After having stepped to him and kneeled down to salvage the device, he froze dead in his tracks, spotting movement in the blackness ahead.

He remained motionless for at least a dozen seconds, not even pointing his gun where the sound had come from, still unsure of having really heard anything at all. Then, almost instantly, as he spotted what seemed like a pair of eyes fifteen feet ahead, he aimed his gun while at the same time clicking the safety off, and put his finger on the trigger.

No round was fired, though, for at the same time, he heard a distinct meow.

"Goddammit Harry, pull yourself together!" he whispered; he could feel his heart pounding like mad in his temples, and throughout his whole body. Tremblingly, he removed his finger from the trigger, and tried to catch his breath while Hieronymus approached, slowly but surely. "Sneaky bastard," he uttered to it, remembering how well it had learned to find its way throughout any building's ventilation or maintenance shafts. A drop of sweat formed on his forehead and ran down his face.

Then, the cat looked fixedly beyond him, and froze as well. Harry's heart seemed to instantly implode within his chest as he perceived the presence right behind him, his every sense boosted, his body pumped full with adrenalin. He jumped forward while pushing sideways so he could turn around in midair. It happened so fast that he could not see what it was that had jumped at him and missed him, – not to mention that he had dropped the flashlight, – but he had the time to shoot at it once. However, instead of penetrating, the bullet, meeting with the side of the target, simply ricocheted off it and lodged in the ground a number of feet away.

Upon touching the ground, Harry rolled, and found himself in a kneeled position, aiming straight at the... he didn't know what the hell it was that he was aiming at, but its side was fully lit by the flashlight; he could see it clearly. It had a tail, claws and razor-sharp teeth; it had two red, bloodthirsty eyes; it was pouncing at him!

He closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger so many times and so fast that he could see the flashes through his eyelids and was almost deafened. Shortly thereafter, he was crushed under the creature's body.

* * *

Only seconds later, although it seemed hours had gone by, he recovered from the shock. He was soaked in the thick fluids spurting out of the thing. He pushed it away and knelt, convulsing and vomiting again. "What the hell!" was what he wanted to say, but his lips were trembling and he could not even mouth a single word.

In no time he was out of the building, pistol in one hand, Hieronymus in the other. The latter hissed and jumped away, scratching Harry's hand by the by; it ran away. It would return anyway, as always. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, filling his lungs with purer air, washing away the blood's smell. When he opened them, he noticed that the barracks were blazing and slowly falling apart, as well as most of the base's buildings.

In the midst of the destruction, he stood alone, looking at the sky, for it was the only remaining place which still looked as it had always looked... aside from the smoke. Rain began to pour on him. He did not see them, – or hear them either, – but he could feel that more of those creatures were nearby.

Without thinking, he strolled toward the closest bunker; there were two in the area; it was one of the only undamaged structures. The door was wide open. He stepped in.

They had stored surplus in there in the past. Everything was still in place. First aid kits, flares, flashlights, guns of all shapes and sizes, a shitload of ammo, flamethrowers, concussion grenades...

The works.


	2. Chapter 2, The Color of Pain

**2. The Color of Pain**

From the bunker to the command center, from the command center to the barracks, and so on, the night's blackness was punctuated by dancing flames. Some movement, ahead. Harry clutched on the large trigger. A gush of thick blazing plasma erupted from the flamethrower's end, consuming the creature in a matter of seconds. Left and right, more of them were coming, – an endless stream, – coming for him, out of the blue, – everywhere. As he fired, the bursts from his weapon brightened his surroundings, seemingly revealing dozens of them rushing out of the nearby flaming buildings. He did not know whether he was surrounded, or whether they just were the shadows, playing tricks on him, but he did not pause to reflect upon it.

In a pyromaniacal frenzy, he kept firing and burning. He did not worry about the plasma within the weapon, he had plenty of it to go around. But in spite of that, it stopped. Unsettled, he glanced at the gauges, and noticed, only too late, the towering levels of heat. He hurled it away reflexively when he felt the burns on his hands.

Something else — fast! Frantically, he tried to get hold of the machine gun strapped on his back. His hands were red, and a sudden pain stroke him as he grasped the cold metal.

But there was nothing left, he noticed as he held the gun at the ready, turning round and round in search for a target. There were only carcasses – about a dozen of them – scattered all around him. Huge cracking sounds filled the air: the structures yielding under their own weight: the thunderous rumble of their collapse shortly followed. It was a huge inferno. There was nothing left to do, but run.

* * *

He reached the pitch-black hilltop, panting, only finding his way thanks to pale remnants of moonlight, for he had turned his flashlight off, just in case. He turned around. The base was still burning, but it would soon be over. He paused to catch his breath, by the by dropping a few pieces of extra equipment which he did not want to carry any more. And when he raised his head to look at the other side of the hill, he saw it... There was no hope left — no hope at all.

The colony was but a shadow of its former self. Most of the constructions had been ripped open and bodies were scattered all around the place, – civilians. On the North side, to his right, the last bunker still stood, staccato flashes from bursts of Gauss rifles showing from the openings. He could just hear them in the wind.

A swarm of creatures stormed the bunker, cutting through the men stationed outside like butter. The Marines within resisted fiercely, but in the end, the automatic fire died as well. And there was silence.

One of the damaged buildings had caught fire, and it soon spread out. The blackness was engulfed in flames.

Even the silence burned out. Someone – something – was making its way up the hillside. Judging by the occasional sounds of claws clicking on the ground, Harry thought safe to assume that whatever was coming was hostile. He had nothing to loose. He fired the machine gun in the blackness, hoping to hit something.

Only when the ammo ran out, did the creatures come out of hiding. He stared at them in despair, almost paralyzed in fear. He grasped a grenade, and started to remove the pin, but never had the chance to do it. One of them pounced at him, and everything went black.

* * *

_Blackness. See. Hear. No feelings. Only. Pain._

Harry's mind was confused, a thousand nervous signals reaching it all at once, giving contradictory information. It seemed like he could see, but he could feel neither his eyes, nor his eyelids; it seemed like he could hear, but there did not seem to be any sound at all; he felt nothing, but felt pain all the while. It seemed black, but then it was another color; he did not know which one, except that it must have been the color of pain...

"Embrace the swarm."

The dismal voice came out of nowhere, – and at the same time, from everywhere. It was all-powerful, overwhelming; he could not hide from it; it was just there. He started to panic, unable to feel his own body, or to move, – unable to hide, or to flee.

"You are but a shadow of your true self. Unleash your true potential. Embrace the swarm!"

It quickly became unbearable. He did not hear it any more, but at the same time, he could feel it being repeated. He did not know how much time: hours; days; weeks; months... Something was storming his mind, seemingly causing all-out destruction, increasing his sensations with each second past. He could not even think; just feel. The pain was exceptional.

* * *

He had reached a point where he could not on earth think it could possibly be any worse, when, all of a sudden, the pain started to go down, and up, and down, and up, always shifting from one extreme to another. It was even more powerful than before.

This time, though, something changed. His senses were coming back, if only gradually. He closed his eyes at once, as he felt an acute pain in them. He could move, but he could still not leave.

His surroundings were viscous. From what he had seen briefly, and felt, he thought he was bathing in a thick, gluey, green-yellowish substance of some sort.

Suddenly, he started convulsing. He felt the liquid within, as if drowning. Reflexively, his body jerked and his lungs had spasms, trying to eject the substance. At length, however, it all stopped; but he was not dead. Somehow, he did not need to breathe in there.

He noticed them: sounds. They were barely audible; muffled, from traversing the thick fluid. When he thought he had recognized them, everything went black again, but he had the time to see the fluid go, and feel his body falling on the ground. He had recognized them: _Gauss rifle bursts._


	3. Chapter 3, Pallid Whiteness

**3. Pallid Whiteness**

_Whiteness._

The blinding light filled Harry's head, although his eyes were closed. But most importantly, even though it was rather aggressive, it did not cause any pain, – and it was nowhere near as overwhelming as what he had just experienced; – it was almost agreeable, in comparison.

His eyes felt very sensitive; whenever he opened them he was blinded, and a burning sensation ran throughout his optic nerve, all the way up to his brain. He let them closed. He could move, but just a bit: his fatigue was extensive. He did not seem restrained in any way whatsoever, so he did not worry too much.

Although he could remember quite well what had happened, he evaded the thoughts, for they brought him fear and distress. He preferred to reflect upon his current situation; where was he and how had he ended there? Was he even alive?

His mind raced, consuming what little energy he had left, but found no answer. He felt asleep under an hour.

* * *

_Whoosh!_

Like lightning... it seemed as though he had reeled back into consciousness; as though every inch of his body had been brought back from the dead all at once. He did not move at first. His mind flashed and flickered, blurred by the sudden activity. Slowly, he came to feel better.

"Hello?"

He almost jumped, taken completely by surprise. He opened his eyes, and although it was not so intense as before, they still burned a bit; he could not see. He crawled backward, soon finding himself in a corner. He tried to feel his surroundings with both hands. He was dressed in a long, loose shirt, and he was on a bed of some sort. Tiny tubes were plugged into his arms and legs; it itched. There were also things on his head. He grasped the tubes, intending to tear them away.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

He faced the direction from which the voice came. At first he had not really listened to it, nor had he understood what had been said. Now he realized that it was nothing like the one he had heard earlier: he heard it through his ears, not in his mind. It was soft; youthful; almost luminous... It was a woman's voice. Blinking his eyes multiple times, he noticed that his vision was coming back. He reached to his face with both hands to rub them.

_White. _It was so white: the bed, the walls, the floor, the whole room, – even the lights were desperately white: so white it quickly felt pallid. There was not much in the room, – which was at least twenty square feet, to accommodate equipment of substantial size, presumably; – there was the bed in the corner and a few machines lying beside; and her, sitting in a white, metallic chair, quite close. She was white as well, dressed in what looked like a scientist's blouse or something, with pens and pencils in a chest pocket. Her skin had a pale complexion, evoking lack of sleep. Her dark-brown hair were drawn back in a ponytail, but a few disheveled tresses hung loosely on her cheeks. Her blue eyes were just like her voice. Should wouldn't even be thirty, thought Harry. She was sitting, cross-legged, holding a notepad and pencil, observing him curiously.

And she was smiling.

_"Wohh—"_ Harry mumbled unintelligibly. He paused, and tried again, but nothing understandable came out. He could not speak. Furthermore, although he could still crawl and make basic movements, he had lost all agility and dexterity. He found himself almost shivering as he realized it.

"Take it easy," the woman said calmly, "you'll need a day or two to pull yourself together and recover your mobility." She glanced at the numbers on the machines, took a few notes and, seeing Harry's puzzled look, commented, "These will accelerate your recovery. By the way I'm afraid you won't be allowed to eat for a day, at least, until your stomach gets well enough."

She remained there, observing him, but seeing as how he remained motionless, even though she had stayed a good minute, she stood, and started toward the door. Now that she was standing, he noticed that she was slightly built: indeed clearly a scientist, not a field medic or something. Halfway through the door, she turned around and added amiably, "I'm Doctor Waters, I've just been assigned to take care of you for a few days, until the head doctor comes back. Don't worry, you'll be fine in no time. Oh and... nice to meet you, _Harry_ Blake." She smiled, and closed the door.

She looked nice when smiling.

* * *

It had been three p.m. when she had left; there was a clock, pinned on the wall behind the bed. In the next hours, he had time to think.

Firstly, he was alive; which ought to be good. But secondly, where was he? and what the hell had happened? There was no answer, and no one to ask. He had to get to the door...

He didn't leave the bed, at first. He knew that there was no way he could walk. She had said he would recover fast though, so he started to work his muscles. With each movement, however small, he felt as though his blood was boiling. And he felt dizzy as hell; he couldn't even kneel straight.

At length – after an hour or two – he managed to stand, uneasily, on his legs, the machines supporting part of his weight. They were heavy and cumbersome, but they were not fixed to anything. After much effort, he managed to bring them closer to the door: the tubes' length didn't allow him to reach it, and he didn't want to remove them, for somehow he trusted that Doctor Waters' advice (although he didn't know whether it was because she sounded trustworthy, or because she smiled nicely).

He sighed in relief, for it was not locked. It opened inward. He peeked through. There was a corridor, – standard modular gray metal plates everywhere, – which ended on the left, with a computer console imbedded in the wall at chest level. On the right, the corridor extended a good eighty feet, with two other doors such as the one he was peeking through; then it turned left. His peripheral vision was still quite blurry: it was several seconds before he noticed the guard sitting beside the door just before him.

"Sorry fella," the bald man said, with a strong accent, "can't let you out. Orders're orders." Harry just stared at him, he could still not talk. After a good ten seconds, he decided it was no use trying, and he lay back on the bed. He was probably in one of those special hospitals the Confederates had had; those Sons of Korhal wouldn't let him out before he answered a bunch of stupid questions. He wondered where he was; Korhal, maybe; or Chau Sara, Mar Sara, where everything had begun...

Time went past faster than usual, while he wondered more and more.

* * *

Eight p.m. He had wanted to take a nap, but had failed.

The door opened; before he even had time to sit, Doctor Waters was in and had sat on the chair. She had slept, and looked fresher.

"So... how are you holding up?"

"Good," he managed to articulate. She smiled, and started asking another question, but he cut her short, asking, "Where?" (He could not voice anything much more elaborate in his state.)

"Where we are?" she said, frowning, "I- I can't tell you."

"When?"

"I've got instructions, I can't tell you... Sorry, I wish I could."

There was some warmness in her voice though, some comfort. Damn orders, he thought. He had followed them himself, in his time. He was not sure if he could any more.

The rest of the conversation wasn't very animated. She asked him questions, he answered them, she took notes, and she pushed a couple of buttons on the machines; that was it. She left, and he felt uneasy.

She had given him a glass of water and a couple of pills, "to help sleeping." He swallowed them both right away, and stopped thinking. _That's some stuff, _he though, as he almost right away fell into unconsciousness. The ambient white overwhelmed him.

* * *

It felt like only a second had passed. Someone was gently trying to shake him awake. He opened his eyes. It was dark, the lights were still off, but the white everywhere helped reflect what little light was coming from the half-opened door. Waters was here hunkered down just beside him, a hand on his arm. Glancing at the clock, he noticed it was four a.m. Even back in the colony, he wouldn't have gotten up that earlier.

"What—"

"Shh! Keep your voice down," she whispered, glancing at the door to ascertain no one was there. Harry stared at her. Her eyes seemed to sparkle in the darkness; but she looked worried, judging from what little he could see of her features. It seemed to him she was hesitating upon doing whatever she had come here to do.

"The guard?" he asked, worriedly.

"It's okay, he's off to get some coffee," she said.

An uneasy silence lingered.

"Tomorrow," she hesitated, "I'll be assigned elsewhere in this base. Doctor Tarran will take care of you. I've seen part of your file; it seems they'll keep you confined until they've performed batteries of tests. It might take some time. And..."

She paused. There was definitely something in her expression; like she cared for him.

"I just think you ought to know what happened out there, in the meanwhile," she concluded. She laid some sort of datapad on the edge of the bed, stood, and went to the door.

"Wait!" Harry whispered; she stopped and turned around, facing him; "why? What the hell happened to me?"

Hesitating, she lingered, and finally answered, "I... don't know."

She knew all right, but she couldn't tell him. "Hey!" he uttered as she was halfway through the door frame.

"What?"

"What's your first name?"

She stared at him for a good half-dozen seconds, motionless, before answering shyly, "Kathy- Katherine," and she left for good, closing the door noiselessly.

"Farewell, Doctor Katherine Waters," he whispered to himself.


End file.
